


We See Stars Through The Storm

by angelwarm



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3565295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelwarm/pseuds/angelwarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a soft rain. Misha goes for a run. Jensen always comes back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We See Stars Through The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I missed writing them. So sue me. This is so short it's basically self-indulgent.  
> Title loosely based on a quote from Fanny Howe's "Second Childhood."

_“Hey, J. Just me. God. No, just kidding, it’s me. You know who me is. I don’t know why I’m calling. Yes I do. You missed trivia night.”_

The last, sad traces of sleep drip out of the corner of Jensen’s eye as he yawns. He rubs them away.

_“Danielle always wins. Can you tell her to stop coming? Just kidding.”_

Misha’s voice cuts off, followed by an audible intake of air. _“I don’t know…why I’m doing this…”_

There’s nothing unusual about Misha leaving him voicemails, or vice versa; but Jensen can’t place his tone. Yeah, he missed trivia night, but that happens. They couldn’t get a babysitter.

_“…but just so you know, I’m going to hang up now. I’m tired, J,”_ a sigh, _“what are we doing. I never know what we’re doing. Bye.”_

Something carries in the dial tone when Misha hangs up. 

His disappointment, maybe. Oh, fuck. He’s going to read into this.

They were never a sure thing. Not solid. The feel of the wood bannister in his hand as he slides down the stairs, back against the steps, is softer. There’s a window open somewhere, the rain coating the room in a thin sheen of dew. Now it smells like him everywhere. Now everywhere is a reminder.

Jensen stills. Unblinking—without a single shake of his hands—he phones him again. It takes practice for Jensen to love, and he knows this, and Misha knows this; but there is something else in the staccato ringing that sounds a lot like finality. 

“Come on, pick up,” he mutters. His eyes are pricked with dryness but they won’t close. He isn’t tired. He doesn’t want to sink into bed so distant; Danneel shouldn’t have to deal with this. The rain is loud.

There is a single cut of sound. A rasp, “Hello?”

“Jesus,” Jensen rises to his feet, the anxiety following at his ankles as he walks to the window, watching the rain. “What’s going on, Mish? What was that?”

“I just—” There is a coppery clank. Jensen feels the pinpricks of anger, hot in his ears, behind his eyes.

“You just—you just, what?”

“I maybe,” Misha’s smile through the phone. Misha’s smile through anything. “I maybe got a teensy bit drunk.” It’s then that the anger churns, or maybe it was never anger, never could be. He stutters, leaning forward to catch himself with a palm on the window sill. Misha’s breathing, the rain static, another clank.

“So you called me?”

“Naturally.”

“And left a dumb voicemail?”

Misha curses, breathy, and Jensen bites on his finger to keep from laughing. “I love you,” Misha answers simply. “It makes me dumb.”

Jensen quirks an eyebrow. The feeling works through him, a single push at his gut.

“So. What’re you doing, kid?”

“Well,” Misha states, “I am attempting to make noodles.”

He can hear a faucet turn on and off. 

“How’s that going?”

There’s a sense of Misha’s movement, which Jensen can imagine—stumbling, soft, barefoot in the kitchen. The hanging light on his porch tracing the outline of his body. Jensen’s fingers twitch. He wants to tell Misha there are no noodles in the pantry but he figures that’s something he’ll find out—

“What,” Misha exhales, like it’s a secret and Jensen gets to know, “we have no…noodles. None.”

“No noodles,” Jensen coos, the something curling around his gut, not pleasant, making him sick. “What kind of household has no noodles?” He doesn’t mention that on their last grocery trip, Jensen peeked through the plastic bags and took the noodles home with him instead.

“Mine, apparently.” His shock is palpable. 

“Anything open right now?”

“Open?”

“You know, like,” Jensen rubs the back of his neck, “24 hour joints or something.”

“I want to preserve,” a door closing, a gravelly mumble, “at least some of my—my dignity.”

“What dignity,” he teases.

Misha gasps. “If you were here, and if I had noodles, well, you wouldn’t get any noodles.” Jensen laughs, slight and tucked into the phone, instead wishing he was tucked into Misha. Then it occurs to him that he could be.  


Jensen is toeing on his shoes before he has a chance to think about it.

“It’s not funny,” Misha says, petulant.

The front door is painted blue. Jensen tried to pretend he thought of it but everyone asked right away if it was Misha’s idea. That’s fine with him; but it’s kind of sad that no one asked Misha if the row of yellow tulips in his front yard was Jensen’s idea. 

Really, Misha can do lots of things with his hands, but he’s helpless in a garden. Jensen tries to keep quiet as he opens it to the night storm. Misha’s breathing is steady.

“Relax, Mish. When did you even start caring about that crap?”

“Just now,” Misha says softly. “Just now.”

The rain is cold. But Jensen doesn’t stop burning—and the sensation sends him walking out into the downpour, the black night around him like nothing could ever hurt again.

“I’m outside,” he tells Misha. His gym shoes begin to take some water with them.

“In the rain?”

“Yeah.”

Jensen can’t see a single thing. The only way he knows it’s raining is how fast his shirt soaks through, how the street light catches the thinness of it, silver and barely a trace. It makes him think of spider silk, of the kind that come in the summer and nest in the bushes in the backyard.

“God,” Misha exhales, “I miss you.”

His sweetness glides up the back of Jensen’s neck. Misha’s phone message sounded—like nothing, maybe, if Jensen didn’t know him so well. The muttering about the first few months he knew Jensen and wanting to touch and not knowing why it was so god damn hard to keep his hands to himself. Sometimes Misha talks like Jensen and it makes him empty, in a good way, like more of his insides are excavated to make space for the both of them. The weight of them.

“Is that why you called?” Jensen licks his lip. The rain is sweet, tinny.

“Why what?”

“The voicemail.”

There’s a pause, long enough where Jensen bites the swell of his thumb nail. He’s about to ask if he’s fallen asleep because Misha’s thick sighing is all that he hears in the receiver.

“Come over,” Misha rushes, voice still low, “just come over. For a bit.”

Jensen smiles. “Now?”

“We’ll make noodles,” Misha promises.

“You don’t have any noodles,” Jensen reminds him. He begins to walk towards Misha’s house, heart stammering in his chest. He saw him yesterday. They shouldn’t be so desperate for each other, not in the middle of the night, but—

“We’ll improvise.”

 _And isn't that it?_ , Jensen thinks. _Isn’t that everything?_

“I just want to stay out here for a while,” he replies, cool. There’s never been an easy giving-in, except maybe for the night when they didn’t leave the sofa for seven hours and Misha’s mouth tasted like raspberry sorbet every time he licked inside.

“Good idea,” Misha blurts out, “Maybe I’ll go for a run.”

Jensen hums, all too aware of where he’ll run to. “That seems nice. Just you and the open road.”

“Just me and the open road and my family of wolves.”

“Have you seen them lately,” Jensen asks. He’s smiling, licking every other trace of rain off his lips. He’s halfway to Misha’s, the familiar “DUCK CROSSING” sign coming into view. His heart starts again and the small talk doesn’t do much to calm its stuttering.

“No. Don’t tell anyone,” Misha whispers, and Jensen’s already laughing before he says it, “but I’m having an affair.”

“With another wolf?”

“With a cowboy.”

“Scandal in the suburbs!” Jensen’s legs begin to move faster, just past the black lake, which scares him somewhat. The possibility of lightning is confirmed when one strike of white hits the sky, the crack of it adding to his delirium. It’s four in the morning and Jensen is running.

“Can’t help it,” Misha adds, sounding strained, “scandal follows me everywhere.”

“Yes, you’re so,” Jensen pants, “you know.” He swallows. Even in the dark he could recognize the curve of the street anywhere. He’s close. “How’s the run?”

“Amazing,” a voice comes from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Jensen startles; he whips his head around but can’t see anything.

“Maybe I’ll see you,” Jensen murmurs into the receiver. His chest heaves. He feels suddenly ridiculous in a thunderstorm on a tuesday at four in the morning running to see the same man he’d see if he went to bed, like any normal person, and went to work the next day.

It’s clear—decided, perhaps, for both of them—that none of this was ever going to be normal.

Misha’s voice at his neck. “Maybe.”

His skin shivers in waves, up his back shoulders, under his ear where Misha’s mouth now presses a firm hello-kiss. It’s a hello-kiss because Misha does it in patterns of two. Two times hello. Three times goodbye.

Misha kisses three times.

“Bye,” Misha says into the receiver. Jensen hears the faint click of the iPhone screen shutting off.

“Bye,” he echoes, distant from any sense of reality besides the one that exists in Misha’s hands, now kneading the soft part of Jensen’s navel where it dips into his pajama pants. He shuts his phone off, holds it in his hand.

“You’re soaked,” Misha chides. “I’m drunk.”

“Yeah,” Jensen adds, weak, “and you have no noodles.”

“Mm,” Misha nods, his nose tracing a thin line down-up Jensen’s neck. His head tips back to rest on Misha’s shoulder. Fingers find the patch of hair on his lower stomach and scratch through them, appreciative, like always. A blink of lightning.

Jensen’s thoughts from earlier drift back to him, Misha hands continuing to feel his skin, so different in the rain. Beside himself, he laughs though an answering rumble of thunder. “We’re so—.” Another laugh.

“So…what,” Misha asks, his smile lilting the what playfully. “Dynamic? Divine, even?” Misha turns his face and kisses his bottom lip. He bites it once and then licks over. Another kiss, Jensen shifting to accommodate their position, Misha stepping out from behind him. Jensen smiles, embarrassed by the moment. 

“We’re a fucking cliché,” he concludes, gesturing between them with a determined forefinger. 

He brings his other hand up to list off the clichés, “Rain, check. Drunk phone call, check. Secret rendez-vous at night, check.”

“Kissing in said rain, at said rendez-vous, check,” Misha sticks his tongue between his teeth. It smells like grass, it smells like summer. The very private one that only happens in childhood, when doors were still left unlocked and whole days were spent in the backyard, or the neighborhood, and t-shirts clung to the body with sweat. Maybe it’s more of a feeling, Jensen realizes. Maybe it just gets brought out of you. He swallows.

“See,” Jensen says, small. “I love you that much. I’ll be that dumb for you.”

He hasn’t been able to see much of Misha’s face besides the whites of his eyes, or his teeth when his mouth pulls away from them. Now he sees too much. The skin around Misha’s eyes is so—soft, mollified by the blue light, sure, but by seeing Jensen, too. The gut kicks in on itself again, and Jensen surges forward to kiss Misha, thumb pressing into his jawline. After a moment, Misha holds him, tongue warm and familiar.

Misha pulls off. “What did you eat before bed?”

“What,” Jensen draws his eyebrows together, dazed, “uh—ice cream.”

“I can still taste it,” Misha moves closer again, maddening, “I love that.”

Jensen allows himself to be drawn in. He kisses Misha twice, each one brief but with purpose. When he bites a small part of his chin, Misha scrunches up his nose. “Stop that,” he chides. The rain is barely audible, now.

“Wanna come in for a bit,” Misha asks. It’s a dumb question. Misha is already walking him backwards, and Jensen—God knows why—trusts him to steer him backwards all the way until the back of his legs hit the front porch.

“That’s a dumb question,” Jensen replies, pressing small kisses at the side of Misha’s nose. “Of course I’m coming over. I didn’t run over here for nothin’.”

“Alright, cowboy,” he hears Misha murmur.

They make their way to Misha’s house—admittedly only a block away from where they were standing. The houses and their front lights line up along the street, lanterns, for wayward kids like themselves. 

Misha spins him around, motioning him to go first up the steps; but Jensen pauses.

“You first, kid,” he suggests, softly. Misha ducks his head at the nickname.

Tomorrow they won’t tell anyone this happened. Like the time they drove to the next state over and back just in time for breakfast. These adventures are small, and they stay like that. This way they can carry them around in their back pockets, think of them in difficult moments, when they want to make a drive but can’t—want to run in the rain, but it’s too late or not late enough.

The difference is that there’s promise in their connection. Even if a specific kind of love fades, Jensen’s so sure that this thing of theirs would still be intact. That type of love doesn’t dim. That sense of wonder in looking at each other in certain light doesn’t just stop. 

He watches Misha hit the top step, the lines in his back made more obvious from his wet t-shirt. Wings would fit there. Wings should be there.

When Misha finally reaches the porch, he turns to look at Jensen. His eyes kind and love-dotted. His head haloed by the yellow light.


End file.
